I did it.

Benjamin Trout agreed to financially back me, to fund this project. There's just one final hurdle. He needs to convince three other private investors to join in with him; billionaire friends of his, I assume. Apparently, starting a project like this one costs a lot more than I initially thought. I can't blame Trout for not wanting to invest such a large monetary figure all on his own. I just hope he's a convincing soul; otherwise, all of this effort, all of this hoping, all of this wanting to change—not just in myself, but to change the world—will be for naught.

"What's wrong, Bestie?" Aurora looks at my hands—my fingers are tightly wrapped around the armrests of my wheelchair—then up at me. "Aren't you happy? You did something amazing today!"

I slowly release my grip on the armrests, finger by finger. "It doesn't matter. It'll take weeks before this project gets finalized and months after that before it's officially initiated. Kalyope will be dead by then." I finish my words with a choppy exhale.

Aurora stares at her lap. "But think of the lives you'll help—possibly save—years from now, decades even."

"It's kind of hard to think about that when I've failed to save the one life that truly mattered."

"But she's not gone yet."

"Yet . . ."

Aurora stands to her feet, wrapping her long arms around my neck. "Yeah. Yet."

The nights are getting colder as autumn comes to a close. I pull my sweater tighter around my body, then steer my wheelchair away from The Bluff and towards my bedroom. I'm exhausted; I may just go to bed. My stomach feels like those spinning tea cups you see at county fairs whenever I think about how I take such things for granted: sleeping, then waking, while knowing there are people in the world like Kalyope who might not wake up again once they fall asleep.

Mother and father are sitting in the theater room when I pass by. They tell me they're just about to watch a movie and ask if I want to join them. I agree to stay up for a little while longer Even though I'm tired, I know I won't fall asleep in my wheelchair; I did that once and woke up with the worst pain in my neck.

The floor of the theater room slopes as it descends towards the projector screen, so I lock my wheels to keep me in place. This is my favorite room in the house. Before my accident, I always loved dashing towards the oversized beanbag chairs and jumping face-first into them, like a little kid jumping into a pile of red and orange leaves.

August shuffles into the room with a gallon of chocolate milk in one hand and a stack of blue Dixie cups in the other.

"Late night snack?" I poke the side of his head as he plops down in the beanbag next to me.

He meets my gaze after he finishes pouring, displaying a toothy grin. "Indonesia. I-N-D-O-N-E-S-I-A. Indonesia."

I laugh. "Oh. And I assume that's where you got the milk? From your chocolate milk producing cows?"

He nods his head as he hands me one of the plastic cups full of chocolate milk. "Cheers, sis."

We knock our cups together.

* * *

I've been attached to my phone all morning. A sick feeling floods my stomach every time I hear it jingle or vibrate. I'm terrified that I'm going to receive a phone call or a text saying Kalyope has passed away. I mean, I know it will come—it's inevitable at this point. I'm just having a hard time accepting it.

My vision sweeps over the parallel bars once again. A part of me wants to try them once more, but just as quickly as that thought comes to mind, the thought of me falling takes its place. Six months I've been a prisoner of this chair. I know what the doctors, the world class surgeons, the nurses, Google even—I know what they've said; I'll never walk again. I just . . . I just want to see some improvement, some reward for all the hours of physical therapy and rehab I've endured. Just something. Anything.

Desiree has me lying on the floor once again, extending my legs to and from my chest, alternating legs every few minutes. "How'd things go with Trout?"

I lift my head off the floor to look at her. "Great. I guess."

"You don't sound too sure."

"That's because I'm not." I huff, rubbing my forehead with the back of my hand. "He agreed—"

"That's wonderful."

"But! He needs to convince other investors that this is a pragmatic business investment. I'm still waiting to hear from him."

"And your friend? Will she receive the transplant?"

I shake my head. "There isn't enough time. I would've needed to start this project a year ago in order to save her."

"Oh. I'm sorry, dear."

"Yeah. Me, too."

My phone vibrates again and my heart throbs against my rib cage. It's only a few feet away, but I'm hesitant to reach for it. With a shaky hand, I curl my fingers around it—blowing a sigh of relief when I realize it's just a Twitter notification. I lay my phone back down beside me.

Desiree wraps her hands around my other leg. "Got any plans for the future?"

"Uh, well, for starters: to get out of this chair."

She chuckles. "Any thoughts on college, a career maybe?"

"My mom wants me to check out a few local universities, but . . ." I sweep a glance over my legs, then over my wheelchair. "I'm just not ready right now."

"'You must do the very thing you think you cannot do.'" She stops stretching my leg for a moment, then adds, "Eleanor Roosevelt said that."

I look over at the parallel bars again. Is she secretly trying to urge me to try them a second time? "Okay." I phrase that word as a statement, but I'm truthfully looking to her for approval.

She gives me that approval with a nod of her head. "Okay."

Desiree lets go of my legs, and I roll onto my stomach, then army crawl towards my wheelchair. I pull myself into it with ease. It's hard not to laugh at how easy that is to do now, thinking back to the days when it used to be such a formidable task.

But now I have another formidable task to face—walking. My muscles ache just thinking about it. I want to run along the beach as the waves crash against the shoreline and my feet sink into the marshy sand. I want it so much. I want it more than anything. I don't care if medical experts say there's no chance that I'll ever walk again. They're wrong! They don't know me. They don't know what I can achieve as long as I don't give up.

I sit with my wheelchair positioned in between both chrome bars. Desiree is standing twenty or so feet down at the other end. Extending an arm forth, I grab a hold of the bar on my right, steadying myself before doing the same with my left hand. With a heave, I jerk upward, relishing the sensational feeling of standing on my own two feet. It's difficult to support myself for any length of time; my arms are already shaking from the stress. It certainly is weird not feeling any support from my waist down. It mostly feels like I'm levitating.

Desiree assumes a squatting position, like a catcher poised to receive a pitch, awaiting my advancement towards her. "You got this, girl!" She's has a lot of confidence in me, more than I have in myself. I don't feel like I can make it one step let alone all the way over to her. My arms feel like they're about to give out from supporting my weight—I collapse in my wheelchair.

"I can't. I can't do it."

She moves closer to me. "Listen. If you tell yourself that now, you know what will happen?" She doesn't wait for me to answer. "Then you truly never will be anything more than a girl and her wheelchair." Her words sting, like someone who's poking a pin cushion at my heart, but I know she's right. "No challenge worth accepting is going to be easy, but once conquered, it's all the more rewarding." She backs away, though this time not quite as far down the bars, and resumes her crouched stance.

I reach for the bars once again, allowing her pep talk to sink in. My biceps flex as they strain to support my body. I stare at my pitiful legs, mentally willing them to move.

C'mon. C'mon! Move, you stupid ligaments.

I've completely forgotten how to move them; it's been too long. Then, something happens that causes me to do a double take—I think I just saw my toe twitch!

Tears start rolling down my cheeks before it even happens, but slowly, very slowly, my right foot begins to move forward.

"You got this!" Desiree's cheers are a distant echo. "Keep going!"

The muscles in my arms are burning now, but I cast such pain aside. The only thing on my mind is that I just moved my foot. I actually moved it! I don't care if it was one-eighth of an inch—I walked!

I concentrate all my energy on my other foot as globs of sweat drip from my forehead.

C'mon, McKenzie. You can do this. Show all those naysayers they were wrong!

My heart flutters as I watch my left foot move forward. "I did it! Desiree, I did—" My moist palms slip off the bars. Desiree lunges forward, arms extended, and catches me just before I hit the ground.

She moves the hair out of my eyes and I see her grinning widely. "You defied the odds, turned a zero percent chance into one hundred. I've never been so proud in my life."

"One hundred? You really think so?"

I must have some sort of stupid look on my face because she laughs. "Nothing's impossible." She helps me to my feet and gently places me back in my wheelchair.

As soon as I'm seated, my phone vibrates from inside my pocket. All the joy and happiness is instantly sucked from me. The caller ID displays that it's Benjamin Trout. I answer it hesitantly. "H-hello?" I'm dreading the news that is to follow. My mind is moving a mile a minute. Did Trout convince the other investors? Did he fail to win their interest? Or worse, has Kalyope passed away?

I hear his breath through the phone. "Consider yourself the CEO of this project, kid. They're all onboard!"

My mouth falls open and I scream into the phone. "Are you serious? This is unbelievable! Thank you, thank you, thank you so much."

"Don't thank me yet, kid. We're just getting started. We've got a long road ahead of us and a lot of red tape to cut through. And there's something else you should know about." He leaves me hanging for a moment. "One of the investors had a niece that passed away this past week, and in her last will and testament, she requested her organs be donated to those in need. Well, out of curiosity I had her blood samples tested against your friend's." He pauses, my heart is pounding in my chest, throbbing in my ears; I stop breathing entirely. "It's a match!"

The phone falls from my grasp, bouncing across the floor, but I'm too stunned to retrieve it. I just stare at Desiree; my vision a blur of tears as they cascade down my face.

"Hello? McKenzie? Did you hear me?" I hear Trout still speaking through the phone. Desiree picks it up off the floor and hands it to me.

"Um. Y-yes." A sniff. "I'm here."

"Good. I've already made arrangements; the heart should be at the hospital before the hour is up. Your friend is gonna be okay! Oh, and another thing, you've got to come up with a name for this endeavor, we can't keep calling it 'the project'."

I don't hesitate with an answer. "I know exactly what we'll call it."

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